


the knife waltz

by gillasue345



Series: to hell and back [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Caretaker Dean, Gen, Mary's birthday, abuse tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1911906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gillasue345/pseuds/gillasue345
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There wasn’t any music on this day. This was a day that none of them talked about but each of them remembered in their own way. And in the world they lived in now, it was a day that never ended well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the knife waltz

the knife waltz

 

> they leave you alone
> 
> looking at the walls;
> 
> you chain-smoke
> 
> cigarettes
> 
> and pour whiskey into
> 
> your shredded gut,
> 
> you know the
> 
> feeling and the
> 
> result—
> 
> another
> 
> ten-round bout in hell.
> 
>  
> 
> but
> 
> you’ve done the same thing
> 
> to them
> 
> people simply are not good
> 
> to one
> 
>  
> 
> yes,
> 
> I deserve this
> 
> evening
> 
> as I have deserved many
> 
> similar evenings
> 
> and now I’m depressed
> 
> and finally out of
> 
> music
> 
> hope
> 
> and
> 
> cigarettes

         ~Charles Bukowski~

December 5, 1996                                                

It was a typical Wednesday afternoon in December, except, of course, that it wasn’t. This particular day in December could never be ‘typical’ for the Winchesters. This day was always just a little bit dimmer than the rest. It was a day that should have been spent secretly wrapping homemade presents in the newspaper funnies before school. Dean should have rushed home from school and attempted to recreate his Grandma Deanna’s chocolate pie recipe while Mary was working her shift at the hospital, because that was his mom’s favorite and today was _her_ day. Sam should have made a mix tape of all of Mary’s favorite songs, surreptitiously slipping in some Pearl Jam or Nirvana, because “ _Mom_ , it’s the nineties! Get with the _times_.” It should have ended with Dean and Mary dancing around in the living room to the Beatles while John and Sam looked on with identical expressions of second hand embarrassment at their antics.

But life hadn’t quite worked out that way for them. There wasn’t any music on this day. This was a day that none of them talked about but each of them remembered in their own way. And in the world they lived in now, it was a day that _never_ ended well.

 _But maybe this year,_ Dean thought, _maybe this year will be peaceful._

The air was heavy and fragrant; a snowstorm was brewing to the west, stirring the leaves at their feet as Sam and Dean walked home from school. The weathermen were calling for over a foot of snow and all day long the entire school had been abuzz with the possibility of a four day weekend. Sam pulled the collar of his corduroy jacket up, trying to block the icy wind that stung their cheeks.

Dean put his hands in his pockets, covering the two inches of wrist that his outgrown jacket left exposed to the cold air and tried to listen as Sam complained about a particularly ignorant member of his group project, but he found himself unable to focus. A pit of anxiety had wedged itself in between his ribcage and his stomach, thrumming in time with his elevated heart rate. His brother wasn’t oblivious to Dean’s distracted silence. Dean had been quiet all day, but Sam figured it had more to do with the very public fight Dean had had in the middle of the commons with Laci, his latest girlfriend, than anything else.  

So Sam did what he always did when his brother got like this. He chattered on brightly, cracking inside jokes and making fun of their latest school’s pathetic excuse for a basketball team. But eventually Sam quieted and they walked in silence back to the roach infested motel they had been staying with their dad for the past month.

They’d come to Jefferson City, Missouri for a job. One of John’s rules had always been do the job, move on quickly and shut up about it, but after John had killed a family of ghouls that had been terrorizing the local graveyard without gaining the attention of the local authorities, he’d surprised everyone and decided to stick around. Sam had been ecstatic, but Dean had been apprehensive. For Sammy’s sake he hadn’t voiced his concerns about John’s decision to stick around, but after a few weeks, Dean had begun to relax in their new town. Maybe even come to like it. Everyone around was a die-hard Mizzou fan, though, and his Jayhawks t-shirt had landed him in a fist fight his first week of school, but as far as places went, he couldn’t complain too much.

He picked up some odd jobs at a local auto shop, because Sam had outgrown his jeans, again, and they’d needed the money for him to get new ones. And even though the motel sucked, the rent was cheap and it was close to their school, a rare luxury for them. Usually John chose motels in the outskirts of town, but this one seemed to be right in the dead center, close enough to downtown to hear the bells of St. Peter’s from their room. John had elected to pay by the week, and the motel owner didn’t seem to be too concerned with the fact that more often than not it was Dean who paid the bill rather than his father, but then again, the motel owner didn’t seem too concerned with anything, including the hooker in 2B who had a parade of nervous johns coming and going from his room.

John had promised that they would stay in this town until at least the end of the semester, but Dean could tell his dad was getting restless. He’d gone on a couple of jobs since they moved in, nothing more than a few hundred miles away, but the past week had been quiet. Too quiet. When things were quiet, John had more time on his hands, and when he had more time on his hands, he was more likely feel the need to fill it by emptying a bottle. Dean had always kept a watchful eye on his father’s drinking, and usually he could tell when his dad was about to tie one on. The fact that it was Mary’s birthday provided a perfect excuse for John, and Dean was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.  

 _Maybe,_ Dean thought _, maybe we should move on early. Sam won’t like it, but it’ll be better for Dad if we’re on the road._ Dean didn’t ever voice these concerns to his brother. Instead he nodded and hummed along with whatever Sam was talking about. He’d stopped listening after hearing the words ‘science project,’ and was quite lost.

It was half past four in the afternoon by the time Sam and Dean made it home from school. Right away, as they walked up the path to their door, they realized something was wrong.

The impala was parked crookedly in the lot.

As they approached, Dean noticed that the door was cracked open. They slowed, and out of instinct, Dean pushed his brother behind him. He pulled out his gun and crept up to their room.

Silently, he gestured to his brother, who had followed him into the motel room. The room was empty. Sam picked up one of the guns he’d been cleaning before school and as quietly as he could, slipped a clip into it. He checked the closet, which was empty and then he checked the salt lines. They were unbroken.

Then they both heard a groan from the bathroom. Dean motioned for Sam to stay back and rushed over to the door. He pushed it open with the toe of his boot. The first thing he noticed was the smell, an acrid mix of vomit and whiskey that he had come to associate with John in recent years. He sighed.

His father was lying on the floor. A smear of blood in the shape of a handprint stained the toilet. Dean dropped the gun onto the chipped countertop and knelt by John. Hesitantly, Dean placed his hand onto his dad’s shoulder and John groaned. Dean turned him over to see where the blood was coming from, doing a quick inventory of his father’s body.

He had a nasty gash in his right palm, and a small cut above his left eyebrow, but seemed otherwise fine. Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Carefully, Dean inspected his dad’s hand. It looked like John had fallen onto a broken bottle and slashed his palm pretty badly. Dean cursed as he pulled the skin back, checking for glass; John barely reacted to the pain. He was too far gone.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice came from the doorway behind them. “What’s going on?” he asked, and Dean cursed under his breath.

“Nothing Sam, I’ll take care of it.”

“He’s plastered again isn’t he?” Dean could hear the anger in his brother’s voice, simmering just beneath the surface. He caught his brother’s eye in the bathroom mirror. John looked up then and caught sight of his younger son. His eyes were glassy, but they remained fixed on Sam, standing in the doorway.

“What the fuck did you say?” John slurred.

“Nothing, Dad. He didn’t say anything.” Dean took the roll of toilet paper from the holder and pressed it against his dad’s palm. “Sam, please. I got this,” Dean said. He looked up at his brother, silently pleading that he drop this, that he let it go.

Sam still had his gun, held loosely in his hand, eyes narrowed. “How many times are we going to have to do this, Dean?” he asked, his voice small but defiant. “How many times are you going to just clean him up and pretend that everything’s okay?”

“I said I’ll take care of it Sam! Go finish your homework,” he said. Dean had stopped the bleeding, but the cut would need stitches. 

Sam sighed stepped into the room, placing his gun next to Dean’s. “Here,” he said, stepping around a puddle of vomit. “I’ll take this side.” He knelt down and took his dad’s arm, right beneath the joint of his shoulder.

Dean pushed his hand away. “Sam, I said I got it! Jesus, do you _ever_ listen to anyone? Just get _out_ of here!”

Sam pulled away and sat down on the edge of the bathtub. His lips tightened into a thin line and he clenched his jaw. His eyes welled up with tears. Instantly, Dean felt guilty. 

Dean ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Look Sam, I’m sorry. I just…” he trailed off. Looking down at their father, who had started to sing Johnny Cash, which was never a good sign.

“You don’t have to deal with this alone, Dean. Especially today.”

“I don’t want you to see this, Sam. Please, just… here,” Dean pulled his wallet out of his jacket and pulled a couple twenties out of it. “Go to the arcade, I got this.” Sam pressed his lips together but took the money.

“Are you sure?” Sam asked.

“Yeah—” Dean was cut off, however, by the sound of John puking. Sam glanced once more towards their father. “Shit. I’m fine Sam, go on.” Sam nodded once then made to leave. He stopped once more in the doorway, just as Dean helped his dad lean over the toilet as he vomited.

“I… I’ll be back later,” he said and watched as Dean nodded distractedly.

Then he was gone.

Dean rummaged around in the toiletry bag on the countertop and pulled out the bottle of rubbing alcohol he’d used the last time he had to stitch his dad up, and a pack of plain dental floss. He sat on the edge of the bathtub and pulled his father’s hand into his lap.

John had started to cry. He was leaning over the toilet seat. Dean breathed through his mouth, trying to ignore the smell of vomit and also trying to ignore the sound of his father’s drunken sobs.

“I don’t feel good,” John slurred.

“I know, Dad. Just puke it out and we’ll get you some water and you’ll feel better, I promise.”

Dean sterilized the gash and threaded the floss through a needle. He then pulled the tweezers from a manicure kit and removed all the slivers of glass. It was slow, painful work, but John didn’t complain. Dean stitched up his dad in silence.

“I want Mary,” John said. And something pulled at Dean from deep within his stomach, making the needle in front of him blur and his eyes sting.

“I know you do,” he whispered.

“I wanna to hold her again, Dean. I want _Mary_ ,” John said, insistently. He coughed and puked again. “I don’t feel good.”

“I know, Dad. Just hang on for just a second. Let me get you fixed up,” Dean roughly brushed the tears away from his cheeks with the back of his hand and picked his father’s hand back up. John had big hands, tough and calloused beneath the index finger. His nails were perfectly cut, a product of his time in the military. He had a dark freckle in between his life line and his love line that was shaped like an oval. Dean focused on the freckle as he finished the last stitch and tied it off before grabbing the gauze and wrapping it up.

By the time he finished, John had puked once more, but this time he missed the toilet and some of the brown bile splattered down his son's good jeans and onto Dean’s new boots. He wrinkled his nose and wiped his foot on a towel before helping his dad into a standing position.

“I want Mary,” John whispered as Dean shucked off his father’s flannel shirt and tossed it in the laundry pile. He helped his dad undress and turned on the shower, hoping it might sober him up a little bit, but as he helped his dad into the bathtub John stumbled over the lip of the tub and knocked his head against the molded porcelain tile. The cut on his forehead opened back up and started to bleed again. The water fell onto his face and turned pink, swirling down John’s neck and into the stained tub. “I don’t want you.”

Dean stared at his dad falling apart in the bathtub and he felt an anger rise up within him that he wasn’t able to suppress, not this time.

“You know what Dad? I know you want her, but you’re stuck with me,” he said. He grabbed the bar of soap and tossed it at his dad. “Get cleaned up,” he bit out. Dean turned his back to flush the toilet. He grabbed a dirty towel from the laundry pile and started to wipe up the floor. John had started to cry again.

“I don’t want you!” John yelled suddenly, making Dean jump. “I _never_ wanted you! I want my wife back!” John slammed his injured hand against the wall and hissed. He stared down at his hand as if realizing that he was hurt for the first time. He tore off the gauze and stared down at Dean’s crooked stitches.

The water had cleared some of his haze and he looked up at his son, a cruel expression twisting his mouth until his handsome features were ugly.

“I don’t want you. I should have left you at that dump, that stupid farm, with that gangbanger, whatshisname _‘Sonny.’_ Bet you woulda liked that wouldn’t you, you ungrateful brat? I want _Mary_ back. At least she could sew in a straight line.” Dean felt tears prickle at the corner of his eyes.

“Yeah? Well I don’t want you either, you drunk bastard! But here we are,” he said before he could bite the retort back.  

Dean felt his fists clench, but he made a conscious effort to take a deep breath. _It’s the whiskey talking_ , he thought. _He doesn’t mean it._

 “Don’t you talk to me that way!” John tried to stand, but he swayed to the left, bracing himself against the wall.

Dean automatically moved forward, catching his dad before he fell down again and holding him up. His anger dissipated as quickly as it flared.

“See, looks like you’re feeling better already. How about we get some water and get you in bed?” Dean pulled John out of the tub and onto his feet. John was still taller than him, and much broader in the shoulder, despite the growth spurt Dean had had the past year, but Dean was able to manhandle him back to the bedroom. There, he sat his dad down onto the bed, wet and still naked, as he rummaged around in John’s duffle. He found a pair of boxers and an old Marine Corps t-shirt and turned back to John.

His dad stared up at the ceiling fan. Tears streamed down his face but he didn’t seem to notice.

Dean quickly and clinically dressed his dad and then he pushed him up onto the bed. Dean covered him with the blanket. But by then, John had already passed out.

Dean put a glass of water and the bottle of aspirin on the bedside table. Then he walked over to his and Sam’s bed and pulled his duffle from beneath it. He stripped off his soiled jeans and changed into a pair of sweatpants that he’d outgrown months ago.

 _I should really give these to Sammy and get a new pair,_ he thought to himself. The cuffs of the pants were frayed and there was a small stain on the right thigh, but his brother could still get some use out of them.

John had bought three bottles at the liquor store down the street Dean sat down at the chipped Formica table and started at the half full bottle of tequila in front of him. The sipper of Jack Daniels that John hadn’t broken was still sealed, but John had made a pretty  hefty dent in the tequila. 

Dean stared at the bottle for a long time. The sun went down earlier than usual that night as the snow began to fall in earnest. Vaguely, Dean wondered if he should go out to get his brother, but the arcade was only just down the street and John would kill him if Dean drove the impala in this weather. Sam would be fine he told himself.

Instead, as the sun fell lower and lower into the sky, Dean sat at that table. He pulled out a mixed tape of songs simply labeled MW. He rummaged in his backpack until he found his Walkman and put on the headphones.

As _Hey Jude_ began to play quietly, he took the bottle of tequila in his hands. He unscrewed the cap.

When Sam walked into the room sometime later, his hair white with snowflakes and his fingers freezing, he found his brother passed out in the bed they shared. Dean’s arms were wrapped around an old quilt they always kept in the backseat of the impala and a picture of their mom was clutched in his hand.

Sam pulled the blanket from Dean and draped it over his brother. He then threw away the empty bottle.

Finally, Sam picked up the picture of Mary and put it back into Dean’s wallet, along with the money he never spent at the arcade, because he hadn’t gone to the arcade.

He’d sat in the backseat of the car, waiting until dark. Giving his brother the time he needed.

Sam changed his clothes and climbed into the bed next to his brother. Before he turned out the beside lamp, he whispered “Happy Birthday, Mom.”

He closed his eyes.

John pretended that he hadn’t heard him.


End file.
